


One Call Away

by memelovescaps



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Joan Watson has feelings, POV Joan Watson (Elementary), Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Season/Series 06 Finale, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, crying Joan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 13:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memelovescaps/pseuds/memelovescaps
Summary: SEASON 6 FINALE SPOILERS.After Sherlock is forced to leave New York and return to London, Joan Watson stays in the brownstone. Every day is getting more difficult for her, until one night she collapses.What will Sherlock do to help?Just a short-ish ficlet, I had this idea since I saw the last episode of Season 6 and couldn't take  my mind off it until I wrote it. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did!





	One Call Away

**Author's Note:**

> After watching the last episode of season 6 "Whatever Remains, However Improbable" several times, this idea developed in my head, and couldn't stop thinking about it until I wrote it. This scene is set after Sherlock leaves and in the time it takes them to decide that they cannot be separated, and Sherlock invites her to move in with him to 221B Baker Street, London. So, Joan is still in New York. 
> 
> As usual, Sherlock and Joan are not my property, I just enjoy making them suffer and then kiss (or something). 
> 
> English is not my first language, and the chapter hasn't been beta'ed, so if there are any typos/grammar mistakes, they're all mine! 
> 
> Enjoy!!

It was late at night when Joan Watson finally opened the door of the brownstone and got in, pleased at the warm temperature inside the house in contrast to the freezing cold of the New York night. She sighed feeling drained; and got into the foyer as she was taking off her coat, scarf and stilettos.

She had been working until a few minutes ago in a case with Marcus Bell, supervised as usual by captain Gregson. What had left her as exhausted as she was feeling, however, was not the case itself. It had been pretty easy to begin with, a suspicious mugging gone wrong which, in fact, had been a targeted murder for an infidelity caused by a string of lovers the victim had had. Nothing too difficult, but something that had taken her mind off her worries, nonetheless.

No, she knew it wasn’t the case. This feeling of exhaustion set in every bone and muscle of her body was actually caused by having to pretend in front of Captain Gregson. Lying to herself was not in her nature, and she had realized a while ago that she put some of the blame for Sherlock’s departure on the Captain.

Of course neither the Captain not Hannah Gregson herself had forced Sherlock to confess to killing Michael and thereby forcing him to return to London; that had been of Sherlock’s own accord. And Watson had to accept with a dreaded feeling in her stomach that Sherlock had confessed to the murder of Michael as a wild solution to save her. He was not willing to see how it “played out” (as she intended to do) and risk Watson going to prison, nor was Watson herself willing to see the Captain or Hannah go down with murder. Therefore, Sherlock had no choice but to act and falsely confess to the murder.

They all got away with everything, she got off the hook, Hannah and the Captain kept their jobs, and no one went to prison. And yet, Joan found it difficult not to blame the Captain and her daughter, especially now that their father-daughter relationship was much stronger than before, and everyone at the precinct could see how much they loved and respected each other. They still had each other. She, on the other hand, had lost her best friend.

 _Sherlock_. Watson gulped at the thought of his name, as she was hanging the coat and scarf on the coat rack, and sighed. The brownstone was so empty and silent without him, devoid of any sort of warmth. She stepped into the living room and stood in front of the cracking fireplace (she had to thank Ms Hudson for starting it not long before she got home), really taking in everything for the first time in weeks. Everything was the same, except it was not.

At that moment she became aware of something that she’d always had a feeling of, but had never been clearer to her as that night. A lone tear escaped her eye when she noticed that despite the fire, despite the familiar sight of sofas, papers, computers and lamps where she and Sherlock used to work with; she felt chills through her spine which had nothing to do with the cold. No, it was this house. She felt dejected to find out that she hadn’t been considering the brownstone her home because it was where she lived; but because it was where _she and Sherlock_ lived. Now that he wasn’t there, that the walls of the brownstone seem to come crumbling down on her, it wasn’t her home anymore. It was simply a house too big, too cold and too full of hurtful memories.

She shook her head as she turned around in a swift movement and made for the kitchen, ready to go through the mechanics of her evening as a robot: grab some leftovers from the fridge, warm them up in the microwave, eat them without really tasting anything, and go to bed to toss and turn until the wee hours of the night, when her body would allow her a few hours of sleep before going back again against the world.

Tonight, however, she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to the kitchen to eat anything – or rather, pick at her food -, she couldn’t keep up this façade of a routine she had imposed herself, attempting to convince the world and most importantly, herself, that everything was fine. It was **_not_** fine. She felt heartbroken, the pain of the loss of her best friend making itself present more acutely than the last few nights. Now she was supposed to face the world on her own, and she had no idea how to do that.

She still went to the kitchen without really knowing why, until she realized where her feet had taken her: Sherlock’s bedroom. She hadn’t opened it in a very long time, especially since Sherlock had left. It had been a boundary she had imposed to herself, thinking that if she kept to herself, if she didn’t have anything to do with Sherlock’s space and presence in the house, she would manage.

But oh, how wrong she’d been, for Sherlock’s presence was all around the brownstone. It was in the little things spread around the house, such as the way the cushions of the sofas were distributed for optimal comfort in sitting down; the way he kept a couple of blankets for when Watson or himself finally succumbed to exhaustion in the middle of their work; the way all the books and furniture were arranged… it was all _Sherlock_ , down to the round marks Sherlock’s bowl would leave on the kitchen table whenever he had his favourite breakfast of milk and cereal. All of it reminded her of him, and her attempt to keep his memories at bay had been unfruitful.

So, taking a deep breath, she made up her mind and opened the door. The first thing she noticed was the smell. She’d been expecting a stale odour after so many weeks of being closed. The scent was pleasant though, and she had quickly learnt to associate it with Sherlock: a mixture of sandalwood and ink. She inhaled deeply, her eyes moist at the memory of her scent, so concentrated in this room.

The room was dimly lit, the lamps of the street providing a flickering light through the open curtains. She could make out the bed with its light brown linen, the dark wooden wardrobe, an empty desk, and a bedside table with only a lamp on it. It was noticeable that Sherlock spent little time in this room, as it was bare of anything that was his, except for the smell that was intoxicating Watson’s nostrils.

She took a few tentative steps towards the bed, and knew what she was going to do without being able to come up with any excuse against it. She didn’t even take the duvet and moved it; she simply climbed on top of the bed and curled up without undoing it. The whole bed smelled like him, and his scent was finally breaking Watson’s walls, her only protection against the jumble of feelings of despair and loss. Her eyes watered with unshed tears, but this time, she could do nothing to prevent them from falling down her cheeks. She sniffled once, twice, attempting to control them, but found it was impossible. She hid her face in shame, while her tears never stopped, and for a while she let her sobbing wash away the pain.

At one point, though, she couldn’t take it anymore. Without even thinking about it she grabbed her phone from her pocket and dialled Sherlock’s number, not even looking at the time. It was pretty late (or early, depending on what he was doing back in London), that was for sure, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She _needed_ to hear him.

“Watson! What a great surprise” Watson gasped at hearing his voice when he answered, not two seconds later. He sounded awake and full of energy, and she supposed it was probably mid-morning in London. She wanted to say something, anything, to justify her calling at this time, fully aware that Sherlock was now quickly counting the difference of time zones to know what time it was in New York. But she couldn’t, she had a knot in her throat.

“Watson? Is anything amiss?” she heard him say after a few seconds of silence, and she tried really hard to answer. But all she could muster was a whimper, and then another, and before she even realized she was openly sobbing while holding her phone to her ear.

She distantly registered Sherlock’s deep rumble, and tried to push through her mixed and heartbroken feelings to concentrate on what he was saying. She noticed that, in fact, he wasn’t saying anything other than sweet words of comfort and soothing sounds.

“Shhh it’s okay Watson, I’m right here… just breathe…” she heard him whisper. She focused on his words and the sound of his voice, trying to calm her erratic breathing and the tears that were streaming down her face. After a while and very gradually, her sobs started to diminish.

“I’m sorry, Watson” she heard him whisper apologetically over the phone. She sniffled and cleared her throat.

“This is not your fault” she managed to squeak, and cleared her throat again, trying to go past the lump.

“It is. And I’m so sorry… to cause you any kind of suffering, it…” Sherlock sighed and she could almost see through thousands of kilometres of distance his incessant moving of her leg and clenching and unclenching of his hands, in an attempt to channel his energy and tension “it pains me to my core, Joan.”

She didn’t say anything but she felt guilt crippling inside her. She was suffering, yes, but she understood why Sherlock had done what he had, and why he was now in London, so far away from her reach.

The point was that, logically, she understood why it had to be done, but emotionally… she wasn’t ready to be parted from Sherlock, and she had never been. She wished more than anything to close the distance between them, and to… she didn’t even know what she would like to do. But not this. Not this agony.

“It just that…” Watson sniffled, and gathered the courage “I miss you”

There. She’d said it. Those three words had been the source of her torture for the last weeks, and with every passing day she was realizing that she couldn’t do this anymore. Not like this.

“Are you in bed?” Sherlock didn’t acknowledge her last words, and now she was speaking to her again, taking her away from her thoughts and bringing her back to the present. She nodded but realized he couldn’t see her, so made an affirmative sound, avoiding telling him that she was in fact in _his_ bed “right, now lie down, I want you to find a comfortable position. I will wait”

Watson frowned at his request but did what she was told without a word, never as compliant as she was now with what he demanded of her, whatever it was. Her right side still hurt a bit from when Michael had attacked her, but it was now a discomfort now more than pain, so she got up, took the duvet in her hands and now she did lie in bed, only emitting a faint whining sound. She curled up on her left side, leaving her tender side to rest, and took the duvet up to her chin while still holding her phone to her ear.

“Done” she muttered, merely a whisper, as she sighed.

“Good” he replied, and then she heard him clear his throat “what do you know about the behaviour of bee guards in case of disturbance in their hives?”

“Not much” Watson answered truthfully, shrugging her shoulders even though he couldn’t see it “I haven’t read much about bees, to be honest”

“Well, recently I have found a fascinating article by C.G. Butler and J.B. Free titled “The behaviour of worker honeybees at the hive entrance”, and I found it thrilling as it describes…”

Sherlock’s voice kept rambling on about the behaviour of bees, and Watson listened attentively.

It didn’t take long for her to realize what he was doing, as both of them were very well aware that his deep voice had a calming and soothing effect on her. Many a night they had been discussing something referred to the case they were working on, when he’d suddenly realized something he’d been missing. By that point he’d normally enter into a monologue of some scientific and incredibly specific knowledge he would later use to uncover the truth. Soon they found out that when Sherlock immersed himself in those kinds of monologues and they were pulling an all-nighter, Watson would more often than not fall asleep to the sound of his voice. She discovered that very few things had such a calming effect on her, him playing the violin and his voice being two of them.

Sherlock didn’t enjoy being ignored when he was in the midst of one of his long and scientific explanations, in fact he would usually admonish Marcus for his difficulty to follow his train of thought. With Watson, however, Sherlock was different. The respect and fondness he had for her would come up in these instances, when instead of getting hurt or upset by her falling asleep to the sound of his voice, he would just sigh and put a blanket over her, letting her sleep while he worked and observed her face every once in a while.

So, right now, when it was really late and Watson was in bed crying and unable to fall asleep because he missed him too much, it didn’t take long to see what Sherlock was doing in an instant. And she felt her heart bubble with love at his gesture, one that she was incredibly grateful for. Sherlock’s voice was deep and despite being full of energy, it was no more than a whisper, telling her about the odd behaviour of worker honeybees (which Watson knew it was just an excuse, he could’ve been talking about the benefits of wooden floor against tiled floor and it would have the exact same effect). Watson sighed deeply, curling up a bit more, still holding her phone to her ear while Sherlock rambled on. It didn’t take long for exhaustion to claim her, and she fell into a deep slumber.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

When she opened her eyes a few hours later, feeling rested for the first night since Sherlock had left the brownstone, she stretched in bed. She noticed her phone on her pillow, where it must have fallen when she fell asleep and wasn’t holding it to her ear anymore. She opened it to check how many hours she had slept, when she saw she had a text from Sherlock. It was brief and full of abbreviations, as usual, but her heart skipped a bit when reading it. She smiled happily.

_Rst well, dear Wtsn._

_I mss U 2._

**Author's Note:**

> The article Sherlock tells Watson about, the behaviour of worker honeybees, can be found here:  
> https://w3.avignon.inra.fr/dspace/bitstream/2174/361/1/bures%20B45-optim.pdf 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
